


(home)sick

by sylveonne



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Clan Lavellan is from a coastal region, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Fade Demons, Fade Dreams, Mutual Pining, POV Solas, Sick Character, Sickfic, Storm Coast (Dragon Age), Undead, Vague Lavellan - Freeform, really brief mention of drowning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 02:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14034075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylveonne/pseuds/sylveonne
Summary: The Inquisitor takes a few companions on what was intended to be a quick trip to the coast to assuage her homesickness. Instead, she just gets sick. Solas, the only other mage in the party, gets saddled with nurse duty. (But he doesn't really mind.)





	(home)sick

**Author's Note:**

> wooooo i feel obligated to inform y'all that i have No Idea What I'm Doing and i'm just hoping this doesn't suck. translations at the end just in case, but it's all pretty simple.

Solas thought that if the cold could make even _him_ ache, then the others should have been horribly uncomfortable.

He had been wrong, of course. That seemed to be the trend as of late.

Each time Solas had glanced up from a carefully-sustained wisp of magical flame, his leader and allies appeared anything but. _Strange,_ he had thought with a trace of...envy? Bitterness? He hadn’t been able to name the brief emotion as their travels led the party up a rain-slick path through the woodland hills.

The brisk winds of Skyhold and the Frostbacks had led their party to the near-constant rain of Crestwood, which of course had then been followed by the torrential downpours of the Storm Coast. _Why this route?_ he had wondered idly at the time, to which Cole had responded: “Giselle frets calmly and then _she_ starts to worry. Corpses rising from pitch black waters, memories of a home long left behind becoming tainted and entwining like the kelp around her legs and she can’t breathe and the sunlight seems so far away and she is afraid to forget and afraid to remember because she can’t go back until this is completed.” He had stopped for a beat to steer his horse closer to Solas’s, then continued, “Their cold hands grasp at her ankles and she sometimes dreams that they rise from the sea, _her_ sea, and chase away those held close and overtake the ones not quick enough, and then steal her shorelines away.” Solas had nodded and stored Cole’s insights away for further analysis at a time when they weren’t preoccupied with guiding their mounts down muddied roads that lacked the comforting solidity that ground was supposed to have. Their leader had been some distance ahead astride her hart, more than happy to engage in banter of a vaguely sexual manner with Bull, and she paid her quieter companions no heed. Her laughs were still clear and voice still lilting, even as they were soaked to the bone beneath dark green pines and a canopy of oak branches spread across the storm-filled sky.

Despite being seen as an infallible deity by the majority of Thedas, the Inquisitor was just as susceptible to a chill as any other...excluding, perhaps, the Avvar or Anders.

In a not entirely unexpected turn of events— given their drenching— Lavellan fell ill. It had started out negligibly enough that none of them paid her progression any heed: a cleared throat here, a sneeze there, and it wasn’t abnormal that all except Cole enjoyed warm dinners and hot drinks wherever they were able to make camp; they needed to ward off the dampness that clung to their clothes and skin. She had always insisted on taking the first watch each night they were away from a designated camp which did not help matters. She huddled by the fire as temperatures dropped and gazed out at the darkened skies as though seeking out constellations beyond the clouds. Nothing seemed truly unusual about her behavior until a few days into their trek on foot through the hills rising along the coast. Lavellan suddenly wobbled on an incline and likely would have taken a very violent tumble down into a ravine had Solas not been following so closely. Instead, he managed to cushion her against his chest as well as he could in the mere moments he had to adjust her fall. Some of his breath left him as a sharp shoulder struck him squarely against his solar plexus, and as he tried not to wheeze so that he could properly chastise her for her carelessness on such slippery terrain, he found himself instead gazing into a very flushed face and half-lidded eyes. Her brows had drawn together as she gazed through him and towards the dark grey of the clouds above. “Why am I...how did I…” she murmured, barely able to be heard over the sounds of rain and sea.

Solas frowned and readjusted his grip to shift a hand to her cheek, but he blanched as the heat of her skin burned against his chilled hands. “Cole. Bull!” he had called ahead, and the former flickered back at the twinge of panic in his voice. Cole tilted his head so the water ran off the brim of his hat and away from her reddened face which seemed to break her focus from the sky enough to make eye contact with two of her very concerned party members. She managed to look even more perplexed and seemed to want to speak, but Solas squeezed her arm to shush her.

“She lost her balance and made his heart catch in his chest,” Cole supplied as Iron Bull skidded to a stop an arm’s length away with his axe drawn. Solas felt his lips twist downwards even more as Bull eyed him. “She appears to be ill and very feverish. Solas wishes to return to the nearest camp immediately. I also think this would be wise.”

 

* * *

 

 

Once they had returned to the Small Grove camp, Solas had left Bull and Cole to escort the Inquisitor to her tent. He instead busied himself with rooting through their supplies surplus. Even delirious, she had managed to threaten him with bodily harm if he took so much as a leaf of elfroot from the resources she had dedicated to requisitions. Far be it from him to tempt fate more than he already had. His soft but stern rebuttals of her desire to continue certain activities outside of the Fade— outside of their shared dreams— had already kindled a frustration towards him he had no wish to further fan the flames of...consciously, at least.

Varric would have treated him to a slack-jawed stare had he been privy to his internal monologue of puns. The thought gave him pause; when had he stopped referring to the dwarf by his surname? And when had he started thinking about some of the other members of the Inquisition when they weren’t present or causing trouble? He fingered the stems of a few herbs and felt his brow crease. He had to remain distant and vigilant.

 

* * *

 

“He keeps babbling-- it’s weird enough when it happens under normal circumstances but he’s quoting her...her...fever gibberish,” Bull grumbled in exasperation, his fists tight where they pressed against the log that had become one of the benches in the camp. Solas swirled the contents of a flask mindlessly as he held it up to the quickly dimming light that was sinking below the line of the sea. Cole wanted to help and apparently felt the best way to do so would be to vocalize the thoughts that Lavellan could not in her current stupor. “ _Vashedan_ , she’s not fit for travel like this. Can she even heal in this weather? Isn’t she supposed to be a mage? How did she even _get_ sick? What if the red templars or the Venatori catch wind of this while we’re stuck here? This isn’t an ideal spot for fending off attackers.” His eye swept the camp and the steep cliff to their north, a twinge of disquiet coloring his normally-even tone.

Lips curving into a tiny smirk, Solas cast a glance over his shoulder towards him. “Your points are excellent; I’m glad to see you actually thinking for _yourself_ ,” he prodded, which instantly provoked a deep scowl from the subject of his mild taunt. It wouldn’t do to get into a true argument without their usual mediator, however, and so he smoothed the feathers he had ruffled with, “Truly speaking, your points are valid. She should have been at least attempting to use her magic to prevent this. I’m not sure how she got herself into this state without any of us noticing.” He included himself as one of those left in the dark which seemed to settle Bull for the time being. All Qun-related taunts aside, Bull’s points rankled him. They were too vulnerable like this. Under regular circumstances, other allies would have also accompanied them on this venture. Unfortunately, it appeared that what was supposed to be a quick check-up of the northern Fereldan lands would be turning into a longer stay.

His eyes returned to the flask and he gave it a final swirl before corking it. “The Inquisitor should also know her own limits, given her age and experience in traveling. I am also...concerned...with how quickly her health deteriorated,” he continued, only pausing briefly to choose his words. Lavellan couldn’t hear him at the moment anyways; he could afford to be blunt. _Perhaps it has to do with the stress Cole spoke of earlier this week,_ he wondered. What was it the spirit had said? It hinted at a fear of the undead and what was surely fear for her clan. Little had been heard from Clan Lavellan in the past months. The Inquisitor didn’t usually discuss them these days though… _Not with you, anyway_ , a voice whispered. The thought niggled at the back of his mind. He had possessed no intent to silence her or her experiences back when they had touched on her history in Haven— he had just...compulsively corrected some of the misconceptions she and, by extension, her clan held. That was all. Solas felt a tug in his abdomen that had increased in regularity and strength as of late. Guilt. Remorse. He shouldn’t have the capacity for such emotions given his current plans and history. They were dangerous and drove him to create intricate, world-shattering plans like the kind he had set in motion a handful of years ago. He had to remedy these emotions that kept surfacing in relation to the Inquisitor. It would likely be quickest to swallow the pride that yet lingered and apologize as opposed to trying to coax Lavellan back to a place where her more serious thoughts were shared and flowed freely. There was no time or space for guilt, for another complex web of plans, or for anything else to occupy his mind. He had to fix this.

A throat was cleared and Solas realized he had been gazing blankly at the sea. He turned on his heel and had intended to apologize and ask for Bull to repeat whatever he had said, but it was Cole who stood before him. Bull, definitely the one who had cleared his throat, ducked and made eye contact to peek through the gap between the wide-brimmed hat and miraculously dry shoulder from where he sat and shrugged. “My apologies, Cole. What did you say?”

“Nothing,” was the brief response he got; a moment passed, and then Cole managed a small smile. “I believe you are correct in your reflections. Most of them,” he made sure to clarify. The boy inclined his head and...were his eyebrows raised? Whose mannerism had he picked up? A sense of apprehension settled in his chest just behind the jawbone that rested on his sternum. Solas levelled his thoughts so that Cole would no longer pick up on anything for the time being. His fingers gripped the neck of the glass a little tighter as the spirit vanished as suddenly as he had appeared, presumably back into the tent to stand watch.

Bull seemed more or less content to stare into the flames as a distant roll of thunder echoed from somewhere across the waves. Mere milliseconds later the sky lit with a brief flash of lightning. “Be careful you don’t accidentally conduct any bolts to strike here. We only need one fire pit, and I’m not particularly fond of charred beef,” Solas called in a serious voice while he crossed the camp to the correct tent. Bull looked puzzled for a moment before his expression soured again; he appeared to want to retort, but Solas had already ducked through the flaps and into the Inquisitor’s tent. It wouldn’t hurt to needle his qunari ally just a _little_.

Upon his arrival, Solas noticed two things: Lavellan was gripping one of Cole’s hands, and Cole appeared to be scribbling in...Elvhen. _Why...no— the better question would be_ how _has he managed to write in a different language._ He peered over the boy’s shoulder and was able to make out what resembled a very garbled last will and testament. He pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Cole, you do not need to do that. I promise. She will be fine.”

Lavellan’s eyelids fluttered at his voice and he immediately dropped his hand from his face. Yes, she was ridiculous and Compassion didn’t know any better, but they couldn’t afford to remain in such a vulnerable place for too long from having dawdled to meet her whims. Nonetheless, his lips curved up into a crooked smile as her hazy gaze located his face. “ _Lethallan_ ,” he greeted. Her countenance seemed to clear as she realized she wasn’t going to be scolded. She managed a tiny smile in return and began an inhale to speak before she suddenly crumpled in on herself in a coughing fit. Solas’s expression immediately darkened with concern. Cole flickered a few steps away to vacate the seat nearest the cot and he took the opening gratefully. ”Inquisitor, please, focus on resting,” he soothed. As her wheezes subsided she glowered— as much as one in her state could, anyway— at the title, and he brushed the back of his hand against her forehead. Did she just flush even more, or was the flickering of candlelight interfering—

“Heart racing from more than just shortness of breath and fever, the smell of earth and herbs, close, so close, not close enough, chest burning and face burning and aches all over.” Ah, Cole. He reappeared and stood near the foot of the cot, his hat held to his chest with a hand on either side of the brim, and frowned in consternation. “I don’t get it,” he seemed to sigh. Solas pursed his lips to suppress a smile— he would leave _that_ explanation to Varric, or Bull if Cole was impatient— and turned back to the confusing one in question. At least now he knew his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, but she had enough awareness to throw an arm over her face in embarrassment and exhale a weak groan.

Undeterred, he slid an arm beneath her shoulders and eased her up to a sitting position before offering her the potion he had mixed outside. “Drink, please. _Ma halani, ma halani._ ” He managed to loosen the cork one-handed as she held the flask between fingers that quivered. He slid fingers back through her hair to brush stray locks away and better support her head. She nearly choked on her first gulp— “ _Ir abelas, lethallan_ ,” he apologized as mild remorse and a hint of satisfaction swirled within him— but soon the faint glow of the regeneration potion began to hum beneath her skin. “This should help restore some of your strength, at the very least,” he offered in explanation, but her eyes had already fallen shut again in utter exhaustion.

As he eased her back onto the pillows Bull had been able to scrounge up earlier, Cole said, “A soft chant, magic infusing the air, breath coming easier and easier, warmth spreading and healing and soothing the burns and pressure in her head. She doesn’t remember the words but she remembers the way the air shifts around her hands when she casts the same spell for the sick ones under her watch in the long tents set apart from the rest of their camps. I would show you, Solas, but I can’t make the magic work with these— my hands.” The spirit had removed the bottle from a limp grip and pressed the cork back in when he leaned to the side to catch Solas’s eyes. “You don’t know the spell, but Dorian or Vivienne might. They’ve seen more sick elves than you have. Probably,” he corrected himself as the mental walls reasserted themselves in Solas’s mind. “Should I send a raven to Skyhold? I won’t write on the back of used papers this time, I promise.”

Solas wanted to tell Cole no, to tell him that he could handle this and they needn’t worry the others, but it was probably for the best even with the risk of interception. He had never properly learned how to cure the sick. No one _got_ sick in Arlathan; wounded, maimed, perhaps contracted food poisoning if an unwise child dropped live lizards in the stew, yes, but his people did not simply contract an illness from remaining wet too long. Well...they did now, he supposed, and that constant guilt tugged at him again when he glanced over at the Inquisitor’s form that was wracked with shivers. “Go,” he said at last, and he began to collect extra blankets from around the small space. “Inform the others, use vague wording, but I would prefer if you only directed questions to Dorian and not...Madame Vivienne.” Cole nodded and retrieved the writing materials from where they had been unceremoniously dropped when he had willed his physical presence to a different location earlier. It was an uncanny ability, but one that the boy couldn’t seem to properly utilize in battle beyond basic rogue techniques. He likely couldn’t inflict any physical damage for a short time before or after these incorporeal movements. It was a shame he wouldn’t have much time to further study Cole’s existence before—

A hand on his wrist cut through his thoughts. His eyes found the Inquisitor’s as she croaked, “ _Tel ghilas_ , Solas.” Her plea was unnecessary, though he supposed she wouldn’t have been able to tell in her current state if what he read about high fevers was true. He finished tucking the additional layers around her shoulders and folded her arm underneath the blankets.

“I’m here,” he responded. “I will stay.”

 

* * *

 

His curiosity of the dwarven ruins sated, Solas’s path back through the Fade suddenly darkened. Wisdom floated beside him and hummed in understanding even as his own steps faltered. “Her dreams are shifting and growing. Your abilities could ease her struggles,” it noted. “Her presence is strong here and she is probably seeking you out unconsciously if you can see changes from this distance.” He...wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but he supposed that if her last request before drifting off was an indicator, it wasn’t much of a leap to assume that her dream-locked mind would simply pick up where she had left off. How long had she been stuck in this current dream if he had been able to go and view echoes of dwarven history for plenty of time before he noticed the ripples of her discomfort? Wisdom had already motioned for him to get a move on when his route was decided for him. “Go, or else she will continue to draw those with unsavory intent to her side.”

The wildgrasses that bent around his legs slowly shrunk to the familiar clumps of spindleweed and lotus, foxtails and coarse verdure, and occasional strips of kelp that were commonplace characteristics of the boundaries of Lavellan’s dreams of home. Under normal conditions, he would have turned heel to respect her privacy, but at this rate, she would begin to alarm Cole and possibly even cause an outbreak of nightmares among the scouts and other permanent outpost residents. The Anchor only made matters worse.

He found her as a young girl tucked beneath a canopy of sea-worn stone. Demons of terror and a few of fear lurched along the shore in the form of the undead, much as they had previously done at Crestwood. With a gesture, he shielded her from their senses, and within minutes, they began to disperse. Solas knelt before her and offered a hand. “ _Lethallan_ , _aneth ara_. It is safe.”

She startled and nearly hit her head on the overhang, and for a brief moment Solas wondered if he should have greeted her as a child to smooth her transition from mindless to cognizant dreaming, but recognition soon washed across her face like the tide. Her skin shone as if lit from within for a brief moment as her appearance shifted to reflect her current physical form. A strangled, “Solas,” was all he got in greeting before he was knocked to the ground unceremoniously. His heart stammered against his ribs in protest as Lavellan made herself a spot in his embrace. Arms full of distressed Inquisitor, he had little choice but to rearrange their limbs so that he wasn’t taking a sharp elbow to his thigh or abdomen, and he held her gently to his chest. He noticed her trembling and suppressed a sigh.

“They’re gone. They won’t come back for you tonight,” he promised the mop of bedhead that was visible to him. She tentatively lifted her chin to meet his eyes, but her expression still quavered. His chest ached at the miserable picture she made. Without thought, he pressed his lips to the vallaslin decorating her brow. She inhaled sharply and immediate regret began to tug at him, but she took a steadier breath and melted against him before an apology could form.

They remained on the shore together even as the tide began to rise— warm in her dreams— and lick against their legs. Her small hand spread across his chest and he felt, rather than heard, her ask, “Have you finished your...considerations?” Her voice, usually as strong as the magic she wielded seemingly without effort, was feeble even without the choking illness that racked her physical body on the other side of the Veil. He took a moment to parse what seemed like a non sequitur until a flush crawled up his neck and into his cheeks. _Those_ considerations. The ones he said he had to make after their initial kiss in the Fade a few weeks ago.

“I...have not, no,” he began, but rushed to continue as he felt her deflate, “However, the more pressing concern is for your health. I can make no decision when the current priority is, and should continue to be, your well-being.” Silent, heavy minutes passed, the tension drained from her until at last she had softened in his arms again, and when she did, he wasn’t certain if he had imagined a press of lips to his chest. When he woke the next morning half-bent over against the edge of her cot with a back that ached from having slept hunched in a chair, he noticed their fingers had tangled together during the night.

 

* * *

 

Another day passed uneventfully enough. A bear wandered into camp and had given Bull something to occupy himself with for a short time. He cleaned up the mess and paced and sharpened his axe. If restlessness had a physical form, Bull’s skin would be raw from chafe marks. The Inquisitor’s tent filled and emptied and refilled with used kerchiefs that the requisitions officer seemed to have trouble keeping cycled for use. Solas hadn’t given it much thought in the past, but it definitely seemed as though the constant downpour would make laundry quite an obstacle under normal circumstances. As far as he could tell, they had repurposed one of the tents as a space for hang-drying the massive amounts of cloth scraps the Inquisitor was going through. When some of the buckets of soiled kerchiefs that passed by were speckled with blood, he frowned in the direction of her tent and impatiently drummed his fingers against one of the camp’s tables.

Bull taught Cole how to properly skin a bear. Lavellan wheezed in her tent. Solas stared impatiently at the horizon, even long after the sun had set.

That night when they met in the Fade after he drove off another nightmare, he sat with her at the edge of a pier and watched the sun descend behind mountains he did not recognize. They enjoyed the silence for some time, but eventually her investigative nature surfaced and she began to ask about his frescos. In turn, he probed to see if she had been hurt by his words back in Haven regarding the Dalish, but he found only her desire to keep their organization civil. They traded bits of knowledge as peaceful spirits meandered through the water. She saw him off with a sad smile when his form began to blink in and out of the Fade. He clung onto sleep just long enough to brush his fingers against her cheek and whisper, “I’ll be there when you wake up later.”

 

* * *

 

A raven returned with a missive that had been tampered with prior to its arrival. Fear clenched his gut— _if a force of red templars were to find out the Inquisitor was debilitated and unable to fight or flee_ — but upon spreading the scroll out on the desk in his shared tent, he realized it had merely been Sera who had intercepted it. Crude doodles littered the margins of Dorian’s eloquent script, but the message itself was hardly more mature than the artistic liberties. He exhaled and felt his shoulders droop with the weight of his relief.

> _Solas,_
> 
> _I’m glad you reached out to myself instead of Madame de Fer, as she would certainly have taken the time to chastise you for your improper education and subsequently held the knowledge above your head for several more paragraphs._
> 
> _I will say, however, that I am surprised one such as yourself is unfamiliar with a common spell such as this. Did no one ever fall ill in your village? Have you never been sick yourself? I find it highly unlikely, unless that shining scalp of yours miraculously repels disease._
> 
> _Regardless, detailed below is the theory behind the spell and a few words that can help point your magic in the right direction…_

He skimmed the information and the other witty remarks about his appearance and paid no heed to Sera’s additions. He paused mid-motion, having intended to crumple it and toss it into the fire, but rolled it up again at the last moment. The Inquisitor would likely appreciate the concern from her friends that awaited her at Skyhold. Even though they were crude, Sera’s doodles contained well-wishes and some general happenings that had taken place in their absence.

The magic itself was simple enough and built upon some of the foundations of the healing magic he was familiar with, but it also incorporated the primal elemental forces. He would give the spell a few practice runs away from camp to ensure he wouldn’t accidentally scald himself or Lavellan as Dorian had warned could happen if his control slipped. He weighed the benefits and risks of leaving camp alone, but when he realized he would be able to gather more elfroot and lotuses to use in medicine while he was out, his answer was clear. Mind made up, Solas made his way out of camp after alerting his other companions.

Less than an hour into his excursion, Cole found him. “She’s worsening,” he informed from beneath the dipped bill of his hat. “Her fever is spiking higher and she keeps tossing and turning because she can’t sleep. Her breathing hurts and that doesn’t help either. The Iron Bull is with her now, but she keeps thinking about you and wanting…” he trailed off and his brow furrowed the way it did before he repeated something he didn’t understand. “...kisses, I think. Definitely your presence, but kisses, too.”

Solas snorted softly at the last bit of information and ignored the small bloom of warmth that echoed inside him as he stood from where he had crouched among the sea grasses. “I will return anon. Thank you, Cole.” The spirit waited for him to tuck the herbs into his pouch before he lead the way back to camp.

Iron Bull exited her tent as they arrived. He appeared pale and his muscles seemed to be jumping beneath his skin. Panic crawled through him. Solas couldn’t imagine what would disconcert this ally in particular to such a degree. He strode across to the qunari and caught his arm. “What is wrong?”

Bull sighed and relaxed...but only minutely. “It’s her damn mark. It keeps flashing and she just clutches her arm to her chest and groans. It seems like she can’t quite fall asleep, but she’s not fully conscious either. The fever, I guess,” he explained, the exhaustion evident in his tone.

The guilt was back in a rush that turned his chest to ice. Solas released Bull and started towards the flap of her tent. “Please bring me the apothecary tools when you or someone else has a moment,” he said tightly, then he ducked into the shelter.

More handkerchiefs littered the floor than when he had left her tent that morning; her back was turned to the entrance and her tremors were visible even beneath the layers of blankets draped over her. “Inquisitor,” he called softly, and her head lolled just enough to see him. She stared at him for a moment in hazy acknowledgement, but she made no attempt to speak. “I heard from Dorian.” He sat down at her bedside and rubbed his palms together to try to smudge away some of the accumulated dirt from his foraging. “I feel the need to inform you that I haven’t cast this spell for anyone before, but I did practice and am confident in my abilities to replicate the favorable results.” Her eyes simply watched his mouth as he spoke and Cole’s words suddenly returned to him. _Kisses._  His serious expression melted a little, and he pressed the back of his hand to her clammy forehead. Her eyes drifted closed as she let out a tiny, tired huff. She didn’t seem to fully comprehend what he was said, but at the very least she seemed to be relax now that he was present.

At that moment, Bull ducked into the tent sideways with the entire apothecary table in his arms. Solas gawked. Apparently Bull sensed his shock and took it upon himself to choose a location for the table; Lavellan let out a soft gasp of pain which jarred Solas out of his brief stupor. “Ah...I am...grateful, Bull. I did not mean the entire table, but...this will actually work better.” Horns bobbed in a nod and Bull turned to leave, but Solas added, “Please don’t let anyone enter the tent for the time being. I don’t want the magic to be disturbed.”

“Got it, Solas. No problem.” Bull ducked back out of the tent with a grin.

 _Now he has something to do_ , Solas thought with a shake of his head. Bull’s tension had put much of the rest of the camp on edge, but with something to distract him, the clamor would hopefully return to something more manageable. He turned back to his current patient who had turned fully to squint at him with more clarity than she had moments ago. “Be at ease, _lethallan_ ,” he coaxed, and her expression gradually resumed a more neutral appearance. Now settled, Solas waved a slow hand out in front of him and murmured the spell. Immediately, the air in the tent rose in a brief swirl, warmer and more humid. Lavellan coughed in a way that made even him wince at her first inhalation, but after she blew her nose seemed to breathe more easily. He let out a soft sigh of relief and moved towards the tent’s newest addition to mix potions.

Several minutes later, he returned to her side with a flask of lavender-colored liquid. The Inquisitor’s face wrinkled in disdain. “My friend, I am aware that you dislike sleeping draughts, but you need your rest,” he explained, as he had expected this turn of events from her previous episodes of insomnia that would haunt her back at Skyhold. She shook her head and he continued, “Both Bull and Cole told me you haven’t been sleeping. If you don’t sleep, you won’t heal.” Her lip jutted out in a pout, but he ignored it and slid an arm beneath her. “Sit up. I can’t have you choking or Cassandra would assume I poisoned you and have me flayed in the courtyard for all to see.” This got a hoarse chuckle from her, so very different from her usual laugh, and he rubbed a thumb against her arm; she winced as she sat up but downed the potion without any more fuss. He returned her head to its pillow and tucked the covers around her shoulders once more. “I’m going to clean up the apothecary station, but I won’t be leaving. I need to remain here to keep the spell affecting the air active,” he reassured before she could try to voice her concerns. She settled back and her eyes drifted shut as he set about his task.

 

* * *

 

Some time later, Solas jolted awake. _When did I doze off?_ Magic tingled across his skin, biting and stinging, and he whipped around in search of an intruder. The dim candlelight illuminated nothing out of place, and upon further inspection he could make out Bull’s silhouette outside the tent still. The rain had lessened enough that he and some of the other recruits seemed to be taking a moment to drink and relax around a bonfire. He must have dozed off from the gradual mana exertion. _Then what..?_

A quiet groan drew his attention to the tent’s actual tenant. Even beneath a veritable mountain of blankets, the green glow of the Anchor could be seen flashing like the rifts it was used to close. Tears had gathered at the corners of her eyes and he immediately reached out to find her hand. This was— thankfully— a somewhat familiar procedure from their introduction at Haven. He had forgotten the unfamiliar feeling of their mixed magics that would overflow from the mark. Ever so carefully, he let his senses reach out to dance along the surface of her skin. He revelled in the feeling of magic— _his_ magic, a feral part of him whispered, and it was marking _her_ — swelling and settling like the sea, but the sudden crash of it combined with her weak whimper drove him to action. Careful not to take any of her own energy, Solas skimmed the excess mana that was pouring from her hand. It was fascinating how, despite the Anchor existing as an extension of his power, the magic had synced with her own; it appeared to cause her pain whenever the careful timing missed a beat. Her illness had thrown her own mana into disarray and the mark couldn’t quite match its pulse.

His spell affecting the humidity and temperature of the air strengthened back to its original state as his mana was replenished. A sigh of relief escaped them both in unison as he completed the process. A yawn escaped him, and he took a moment to watch her face, peaceful in now-undisturbed sleep. Solas stood up and stretched, then fetched his bedroll from where it lay on the other side of the tent. He would be standing— _sleeping?_ — vigil again tonight, but this time he would do it _comfortably_.

 

* * *

 

He did not wait to seek her out this time.

He found her at the edge of a cliff with her legs dangled towards the waves that sparkled below. Seabirds floated both on the breeze and the sea. Face upturned, her hair was loose and drifted in an ethereal way that only the Fade could capture. She smiled against the sun, and his throat closed around words he should not say. Now that her mark had been mollified and with the aid of the sleep draught, her dreams had become lighter and easier for her mind to process. Her body was under far less stress from her overactive mind, so she was set to heal properly.

Satisfied with his observations but gripped by a yearning for things he could not— _should_ not— have, Solas turned to go. A hand caught his wrist as he made to leave. “You said you’d stay,” she murmured, and her eyes met his shyly when he turned back to face her. He sighed, caught, and offered a slight shrug and smile. She wasn’t wrong...and he didn’t particularly want to fight her on it either way.

“I know, my friend. I just did not wish to interrupt your own wanderings of the Fade.”

Her hand slid up his arm to his elbow, then she spun so they both faced towards the cliff. “You wouldn’t be able to interrupt because you are always welcome,” she assured him with a practiced ease that seemed at odds with how often she claimed it. The Inquisitor tugged him down to sit beside her on the grassy ledge that overlooked the vast ocean. “Your presence is both an honor,” she scooted closer so that their sides were pressed firmly together, “and a pleasure, Solas.” When he turned to protest, he was met with a beaming grin that drained the fight right out of him. There was a pause as she searched his face for any hint of disagreement; content with her findings, she flopped backwards to look up at the sky.

Solas gave in and allowed himself to drop back next to her. The grass smelled sweet and fresh and felt impossibly soft against his skin as he spread his fingers out by his sides. A brush of something else nearly made him jump, but she quickly interlaced their fingers so as not to startle him any further. “Sorry,” she whispered, but he could hear the smile in her voice. He sighed once more and gave his head a slight shake as his own smile grew. He revelled in the size of her palm against his and squeezed her fingers.

“It is fine.”

The next morning, another raven arrived bearing a glass vial filled halfway with an unfamiliar powder. Attached was a tag bearing Dorian’s flowing script once again. _Courtesy of Apothecary Elan Ve’mal and Arcanist Dagna_. Solas stared at the medicine for several moments before he decided that if the apothecary had been involved, it would... _probably_ have actual healing benefits. On the reverse side of the tag were simple instructions on how to activate the powder and create a potion. He hastened back inside the tent and to the tools he would need to complete the medication.

 

* * *

 

By that evening, the Inquisitor was able to sit up in her cot and speak, though her voice often caught on the rough edges of her throat. She took time to receive a few reports on the Inquisition’s activities and any information on movement around their general location, then later caught up with Iron Bull and Cole. Solas stayed nearby in case she overexerted herself, but the medicine seemed to be working wonders. He would be sure to pay his regards to both the apothecary and the arcanist upon their return. She reclined against a stack of pillows and a few blankets, hair fanned out and tickling the sides of her face, as she and Bull lauded Cole’s newfound ability to prepare meat. Their conversation eventually turned into their usual banter, and as Lavellan made a verbal misstep that left her wide open for innuendo, Cole beat Bull to the punch and delivered the line in his airy, slightly confused tone that was used when speaking of something he didn’t fully comprehend. Solas chuckled and covered the lower half of his face to hide his growing grin but didn’t look up from the tome he had brought to keep himself occupied. Bull and Cole began to bicker about the _ethical_ concerns of stealing jokes from other people’s minds before they could say them, Lavellan shook her head and snorted, and Solas basked in the warmth of the camaraderie that had been missing in the wake of the Inquisitor’s sudden illness. He dropped his hand and turned the page.

He sensed her gaze and when he looked up, she gave him a quizzical look, but all he gave in reply was a quirk of his lips. He turned back to Bull and Cole and said, “That is enough, you two. Let her rest. You can speak more tomorrow.” Bull huffed and Cole tilted his head, but both assented and began to exit the tent. Their discussion didn’t wane, even as they crossed to the other side of camp. Solas sighed in mild exasperation. They would need Varric to mediate that particular conversation.

He fetched one of the potions he had prepared earlier and pressed it into her hands. “How are you feeling now?” He lingered until he was certain she had a firm grasp on the flask, then retreated to the stool at her bedside.

“Better. Not cured, but better,” she said, then took a few sips of the concoction. Her nose wrinkled, but she didn’t complain. “What about you? I’ve felt you nearby practically non-stop since I got sick.”

“I am fine.  _I_ know how to take care of my body,” he chastised gently. She averted her eyes and began knocking back the potion the same way she sometimes did with alcohol at taverns. “Surely you must have sensed yourself weakening. Why didn’t you say anything?”

She finished drinking and passed the emptied flask back to Solas. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, then said, “It would have made me more sick here,” she tapped her chest above her heart, “if we had waited or turned around to head back to Skyhold. I...needed to see the ocean.” Her smile was sad, but he felt he needed to press the importance of the matter.

“What if we had been ambushed while you were ill? You can barely hold a conversation right now, let alone defend yourself from any Venatori or red templars.” He kept the worry out of his tone, but her smile just grew to an impish grin. Oh, he did _not_ like that.

“But...I have you, don’t I?” she asked, all soft and full of sweetness, and his heart stuttered. He could detect the undercurrent of insecurity, and before he could truly think, he grasped her hand and lowered his forehead to her knuckles. Their meetings in the Fade had made him bold, it seemed.

“...that you do, _lethallan_.”

He felt the truth of his words resonate between them, raw and tinged with...anticipation? Fear? Once again, he couldn’t place the emotion. After a few moments, she moved to stroke his head, and he lifted his gaze. Mortification fought for dominance with the simple happiness from the casual intimacy, but her bare expression settled his nerves. She understood.

“Tomorrow, let’s return home,” she whispered as she retracted her hand and snuggled back beneath the covers. Solas nodded and waved a hand to extinguish the candle’s flame. “And sleep in here again tonight.”

“As you wish, Inquisitor.”

“Creators— don’t _call_ me that when we’re alone, Solas.”

He chuckled and lay down to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> vashedan — qunari general curse  
> lethallan — (female) friend  
> ma halani, ma halani — help me help you  
> ir abelas — i'm sorry  
> tel ghilas — don't go  
> aneth ara — typical dalish greeting but literally translates to "hello, my place is safe" so solas uses both meanings here
> 
> pardon my shoddy usage of the language lmao :') and my creative liberties taken with magic and medicine.  
> if you want to see more from me or want stories that actually name my lavellans, send me an ask over at my tumblr of the same name!


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